The penthouse was suffocatingly quiet, the kind of silence that usually preceded a storm. But for Clara Hayes, the storm had already come and gone, leaving nothing but flattened earth and cold clarity in its wake.

She stood in the center of the expansive walk-in closet, her fingers lightly grazing

The wind whipping through the Whispering Pines Cemetery was bitter, carrying the damp, earthy scent of impending rain. It bit through Clara’s dark wool coat, but she welcomed the chill. It grounded her. It reminded her that she was still in her body, even when her mind threatened to drift back to th

The grandfather clock in the penthouse foyer struck seven, its deep, resonant chimes echoing through the impossibly quiet apartment.

In the kitchen, Clara stood before the marble island, her movements methodical and precise. She was plating the coq au vin she had spent the last four hours preparin